


adfectus

by Lauren_is_a_moron



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Hiram Lodge is literal satan, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jughead and archie friendship, Memory Loss, Mind Control, Mystery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Violence, a fic which begs the quesstion: is he losing his mind or is this shit real, core three fluff, mainly bughead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:27:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23378374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauren_is_a_moron/pseuds/Lauren_is_a_moron
Summary: Jughead has been blacking out at exactly 8PM for twelve hours every night, and remembers nothing. He's always either in bed, or in the spot where he collapsed with an aching head and bruises covering his shoulders and back. Ones he doesn't remember getting. He's tried everything, but the town doctor simply says he's mildly narcoleptic.It's been happening for two years. And whatever he does, he can't stay awake. No matter how much coffee he drinks. Though after hitting his head and getting some pretty disturbing visions, ones including classmates Elizabeth Cooper, a River Vixen cheerleader and resident Jock Archie Andrews, he starts to question his "condition" more and more.If it's even a condition.Just what the hell has he been doing for all those stolen hours every night? And what does Betty Cooper have to do with it?
Relationships: Archie Andrews & Betty Cooper & Jughead Jones, Archie Andrews & Jughead Jones, Archie Andrews/Veronica Lodge, Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 21
Kudos: 48





	1. Feel

**Author's Note:**

> MAN. this fic was so far out of my comfort zone lmao. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

  
Prologue.

Her name was on his lips.

And yet he couldn't say it. The name was so easy in his throat, ready to trickle from cracked lips while his lungs burst. His chest heaved. The hand over his mouth was suffocating what little breath he had. He attempted to bring his arms up, hands curled into animalistic claws to fight back and pry the clammy hand from his mouth and nose. But he couldn't. His arms were dead. Numb. They were somewhere far away, torn from his body. 

He struggled, but the more he fought back, the more he cried out, managing whimpered breaths escaping from thin fingers pressed into his lips- the phantom hanging over him pressed harder. Which cut off his air supply completely. With a growing slither of panic building inside of him, he squirmed, trying to shake his head, trying to escape his attacker. His eyes flew open; they were blue. A shade of blue that was kindness and warmth. They were half lidded, flicking left and right, attempting to find clarity when his mind was dark. The first thing he saw was the blinding light over him, which caused prisms and zigzags to dance across his vision. Blinking rapidly through the deluge of yellow, there was only white. Pristine white tiles blending into the floor. There were slithers of silver glistening; scalpels. Medical saws. Tweezers. All lain out on a table. 

Just like him. Like the instruments, he too was laid out like a lamb to the slaughter.

"Calm down, Jughead."

The voice was familiar, sending shock-waves down his spine. The words were reassuring, but the tone was hard. Icy. Spoken through smug lips that failed hiding a smile. "If you continue to fight, then this will take longer. And you don't want that, do you?"

Something spiked inside of him. Adrenaline flooded his veins, pumping battery acid into his heart. His body felt weightless, phantom hands pressing down on his chest, his stomach, his face- stopping him from sitting up on the gurney he was strapped down to. There were more. More hands trying to restrict his squirming form. velcro straps pinned his wrists. His torso. When he opened his mouth to scream, biting at flesh that pushed him down, trying to shove him into oblivion. But he didn't stop. The voice grew more impatient, but there were curls of laughter. "Jughead. Sit still, my boy."

No. 

No. 

No!

Head spinning, stomach dancing, his brain sent a last ditch effort, reminding him of something. Reminding him of names he shouldn't have forgotten. Shouldn't ever have forgotten. And yet, he had. How had he forgotten them? With that thought spiralling, Jughead tried to force himself from smothering hands. He tugged at his restraints with a feral cry. But whoever was holding him down, whoever was killing him slowly, held no mercy. His head hit the cool metal of the table, his naked back sliding helplessly, trapping him. No matter how hard he fought, how loud he screamed into the hand attached to a smug face- everything he was began to drain away. Like it was so easy. Memories were picked from his mind and crushed into atoms, scattered across his struggling form. 

Again, her name was dancing on his tongue. But it wouldn't slip through his lips, no matter how hard he tried. With her name, there was another. But this one was fading fast, withering away like the last of his strength. There were flickers of memory within each name. A blonde ponytail, lily-pad green eyes that made his heart swell. His already aching chest craved that face. Those eyes. That laugh. All those memories that were fading, just like...him. Him! A face. Laughing eyes. A smile that was always bright. Jughead saw a smaller version; red hair that burst into different hues, a fire crackling across pale skin. Freckles that decorated cheeks that he liked to join together in dot-to-dot. But there was no identity to the face. There was nothing. A void grew in his heart. Those faces meant something. They were names he desperately wanted to hold onto.

He wanted to see them one more time. 

Just one more time. 

The girl with the name so tangled on his tongue, convoluted in his mind. So hard to reach. The boy with eyes the colour of mocha coffee. They were being taken away from him. 

"Please." The word was muffled, a stifled moan underneath merciless hands. He wanted to say more. Don't take them away. Don't take her away. 

Her name... her name! What was her name? There were colours associated with it, a myriad of shades exploding behind his eyelids. Pink. Blue. Purple. All the soft colours, all the sweet ones that made his heart flutter. Her name held a melody so sweet in his ears, one he could listen to forever. Her name was Summer and Spring rolled into one. He could smell cherry Blossom and fresh grass. Roses. Daisies. Daffodils. With the smells of flowers came one last memory that was clinging on. It was old. Back to a time when they were both innocent, their youth everlasting. Jughead saw a blur of blonde, pigtails held in bright red ribbons. A grin that stretched across her lips and eyes the colour of the sky. He remembered the day. At least..splinters of it. They had taken turns rolling down Sweetwater hill. A bundle of gold and pink coiled into a ball tumbled down a sea of green. But even that memory was broken. Even that memory was being tugged away. 

"No, no. That won't do. Put him completely under."

That voice. It spiked inside of him, slithered into his mind, a snake tightening his chest, sucking the air from his lungs. A vice grip clamping around his brain. 

Something sharp was slipped into his arm. Jughead's eyes flickered open once more. He didn't realize he'd shut them. The blade made him cry out, whimpering. And that face, that familiar grinning mouth, was suddenly so close. Eyes gleamed. shark smile. With no mouth to cry and scream abuse, Jughead only glared, tumultuous eyes glinting hatred. And yet the man's smile simply grew. Until Jughead let his eyes flutter closed. He was dying, a hysterical thought hit him like a brick to the face. He was dying, and he was fifteen years old. So much of his life was ahead of him. So much he wanted to do.

Fifteen. His mind clung onto that number. 

Fourteen. 

Thirteen. 

Maybe counting would make it better. 

Twelve. 

Eleven. 

Ten.

"Sleep, Jughead."

Nine.

Eight. 

Seven. 

Archie.

Too tired to grab onto the name, too tired to reel it in. Protect it.

Six. 

Five. 

Betty. 

Betty. 

Betty.

Betty. Elizabeth. Elisabeth Cooper. 

Four. 

Stop.

Three. 

Stop!

Two...

"He's not quite gone yet. Give it a moment."

That voice. So slimy. So triumphant. If his arms weren't so tired, he'd lunge forwards and wrap his hands around their neck. He'd squeeze until the vessels in their eyes burst, the tendons in their neck slackened, growing prominent, bruising blue.

Something plastic was shoved over his mouth and nose. But this time he didn't fight back. His arms fell limp. The names in his throat slipped away. But not before one of them, one he refused to let go of, tore from his lips in one last feeble cry. His eyes flickered, streams of orangeade light dilating his pupils. There were several pairs of eyes staring down at him, waiting for him to let go, waiting for him to succumb to the cocktail of drugs being pumped into him. Jughead managed to keep his eyes open for a single moment, wrenching his wrists from velcro straps with strength very quickly dissipating. 

"Betty!" 

* * *

Chapter One -

The rich smell of coffee was the first thing which tickled into Jughead's consciousness, snaking into his nostrils and choking the back of his throat. It was the same taste. The same smell. His stomach lurched with nausea, a familiar striking pain beginning its usual throb across the curve of his skull. A groan slipped from his lips, which turned into a cough. His eyes flickered open, zeroing in on the cracks in the ceiling. Sunlight was already pouring through the blinds, signalling morning. There was bird song outside, and some psychopath was already cutting their hedge. His gaze lazily flicked to the clock hanging on the wall. 7:00. School started in an hour, but Jughead wanted to lay there for a few more minutes and try and figure out why his joints were stiff, his throat was dry and his head ached. No. Everything ached. Everything hurt. But this was the norm for him. The aching, he expected it. He wasn't quite used to it, since the pain felt like someone was sticking a dagger into his skull, but he could tolerate it. 

He'd been tolerating it for two fucking years. 

Aching head. Aching body. No memory. The feeling of something not quite right, like he'd been tossed around the drum of a washing machine. That's what he'd been waking up to every morning. Sometimes it was different. He'd find bruises he couldn't remember getting. His lip might be split. There'd be flecks of blood in his hair and splattered down his pyjama shirt, and yet no memory of being hurt to the point of bleeding. 

At first, he'd been convinced he was losing his mind. It wasn't normal to lose 12 hours of memory. Even at night. He should have been able to remember at least being asleep, being wrapped up in bed. It started slow. His nights would get fuzzy, memories of falling asleep escaping him. It got to the point when he was forgetting he'd even gone to bed. Then he started to realize he was passing out. It was 8PM every single night. No matter what he was doing, whether that was watching TV or doing homework, a sudden feeling of dizziness would swamp him, he'd go off balance, and before he knew it, Jughead would be waking up in that exact same spot. Except twelve hours would have gone passed, and the filthy windows of his trailer would be streaming early morning sunlight. He'd have a beast of a headache, a bitter taste in his mouth, and a sick feeling in his gut. 

After enduring the blackouts for two months, Jughead had gone to the town doctor. He was convinced he was losing his mind. He'd sat on an observation bed and let Doctor Curdle listen to his heart, check his breathing and ask questions he didn't feel comfortable answering. The Doctor had examined the bruises on his back and shoulders, making acknowledging noises and humming to himself. After what felt like forever of being poked and prodded, Curdle allowed him to put his shirt on, and leaned back in his chair, a smile quirking the corners of his lips. The man's office gave him the creeps. He was the town's only doctor, and the observation room looked more like a morgue. Everything was clinical white. Curdle however, bore light blue scrubs. Ironically, he himself looked like a corpse; bulging eyes and pale skin. "Have you ever heard of Narcolepsy?"

He hadn't. Jughead shook his head, biting his lip. 

Curdle clasped his hands in his lap. "To put it simply, Mr Jones. Narcolepsy is a rare long-term brain condition that causes a person, as yourself, to suddenly fall asleep at inappropriate times. This can be due to a poor sleeping schedule, psychological stress, or puberty." The man's brow raised. "Have you been feeling stressed at all?"

"Yes." He'd said, with an edge to his tone. "Because I black out every night, and I wake up feeling like I've been beaten to a pulp multiple times."

Curdle cocked his head. "Have you considered sleep walking? That could be a factor to the explainable marks on your back and shoulders. In fact, many patients experience waking up with unusual bruises and scrapes. It's nothing to worry about, Mr Jones. It just means your brain feels quite sleepy at unusual times. Do you ever collapse in the day time?"

This was ridiculous, he'd thought. How could Curdle sweep something so glaringly obvious under the rug?

"It happens at eight. Every night." He'd explained, very quickly losing his patience. "But what I'm trying to say, Doctor Curdle, is that I black out at night-"

"Hmm. Night is rare. It can be any time, Jughead. The brain is a very complex thing."

"But-"

"Do you harm yourself, Jughead? Any bad thoughts?"

"What?! Are you suggesting I'm doing this to myself?" He'd let out a choked laugh. "Do you think I'm beating myself-"

"I'm going to prescribe Dexamphetamine for now," Curdle cut him off, ignoring whatever it was Jughead was going to say. "This will stimulate your system, and keep it awake during the day." Curdle grabbed a biro and began writing on a piece of light green paper. "Of course they won't fully get rid of the problem, Jughead. However, they will stop you from collapsing during the day, and hopefully you'll see a change within the coming weeks." The man handed over the prescription, and then grabbed a sour candy from the basket on his desk. "Make sure to avoid caffeine such as coffee and tea, and stick to a healthy diet!" Before Jughead could speak, the man dropped the candy into his hand. 

"Candy?" Jughead had said, rather incredulously. He couldn't keep it up anymore.

Curdle only shrugged.

"Sugar can help, young man. I recommend cutting down on caffeine, such as soda, and begin drinking at least three pints of water a day. Candy is also a wonderful stimulant."

Speechless, he'd sat there and stared at the doctor. Curdle wasn't listening to him. Nobody was listening to him. Jughead took the prescription with a sarcastic smile, dumping the candy in the trash before he left. The pills made him feel nauseous and the blackouts continued. He'd researched Narcolepsy, but everything on the internet, Curdle had already spouted out, as if he'd been reading from a Wikipedia page. 

Jughead stopped taking the pills after months of no results, accepting his condition. He didn't visit the doctor again, and fought to control the blackouts. He exercised, went running after school, even swapping his diet of Pops burgers and milkshakes, to fruit bowls and salad sandwiches. The most obvious thing to do would be to talk to someone. Friends. Family. But Jughead was alone. FP Jones spent most of his time at the White Wyrm, a popular adult bar, and his mother and sister had left when he was twelve. As for friends, he preferred to keep to himself. Riverdale High didn't exactly offer him good options anyway. At school you were either a Bulldog, a Vixen or invisible. He chose the latter. Sometimes he regretted it. It had been two years since the blackouts started, and part of Jughead desperately wanted to talk to someone. Anyone. Preferably his own age. But he had a severe lack of social skills. Which meant he had to endure his condition on his own. Which he was fine with. Who needed friends when he had literary classics?

The Jones living room was eerie in the early hours. The TV was still on, playing early morning cartoons. It was an ancient one he'd managed to find at a garage sale. The picture wasn't great, but the hunk of junk was a distraction at least. The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen. Four walls. All the same shitty brown colour. The carpet matched, though a lighter shade. Whoever decorated the Jones trailer must have been drunk. 

He'd passed out in the living room again. Which wasn't surprising. Jughead couldn't remember the last time he'd woken up in bed. When he sat up, his head spun. Squeezing his eyes shut, Jughead fought to remember the night before. He'd come home from school, ate leftovers and sat down to work on his novel. After that? Nothing. Jughead could remember everything in clarity before the blackout. He'd sat cross legged, fumbling through his old notebooks, trying to find synonyms for words he was overusing. He could hear a domestic argument in the trailer next door. The TV had been playing reruns of Twin Peaks, since he couldn't afford Netflix. He'd drank several cups of coffee, hopeful that it could be the night he'd be spared. But his knees had hit the floor. Then...darkness.

Pain struck once again. This time rivulets spiked up and down his spine, bringing tears to his eyes. Sucking in a breath, Jughead counted to ten, and exhaled, letting his eyes flicker open once again. There were coffee mugs covering the small glass table in front of him, flanking his laptop which was timed out, the screen awash in pale blue light. 

It was comforting. Jughead frowned at the laptop for a moment, before his attention flickered to the coffee mugs. Anything to distract him from the pain, like forks of electricity running through him. He swallowed. The amount of coffee he'd drank last night, and nothing had changed. He'd tried mixing coffee with Red Bull. Not a good idea. 

Next to the myriad of coffee mugs, was his phone. The screen was dark. Leaning forwards on his knees, he picked it up and tapped the screen. The charging icon flashed up, and he swallowed a groan. Though Jughead could have sworn he'd juiced it last night. In the early days, he'd tried recording himself. He'd set up cheap cameras all around the trailer, anticipating sleep walking, just like Curdle had said. But every time he relayed the footage, the screen was black. He'd tried it multiple times, replaced the batteries, even bought new cameras to replace them, if they were faulty. But it was the same result every time. A black screen. The footage was still there. But all it recorded was black. 

After a while, Jughead stopped trying. 

Stretching out on rough carpet, he examined his arms and legs. As usual, brand new bruises were blossoming. Lifting up the short sleeved shirt he wore for bed, Jughead found four red marks across his stomach. His head as usual felt like cotton candy, twelve whole hours gone. If he wasn't waking up covered in bruises, Jughead might brush it off, just like the doctor had. But this was far too out of the ordinary. The blackouts felt like they were timed. Collapse at 8 and rise at 7. Like his mind was conditioned into knocking him out, and then waking him up. Jughead stumbled through his usual morning routine. He showered and brushed his teeth, trying to ignore significant changes to his body. Jughead wasn't an athlete. He hated sports, and never went to the gym. 

The only exercise he did was occasionally go on a run. But when he looked in the mirror, his chest was sculpted, his arms thick with muscle. The only thing that hadn't changed was his face. While his body fluctuated, until he stopped recognising himself. He used to be lanky, but now his body resembled one of a Bulldog. Even if he was somehow physically fit, he'd never surrender to football. Jughead revelled in his reflection; His lips were pursed, a sheen of sweat coated across an olive forehead while shaggy raven hair trickled in light blue eyes. His face was the only thing which felt properly his. But that didn't stop him noticing defined, chiselled cheek bones. When he opened his mouth, his teeth sparkled unnaturally. Jughead snapped it shut. He had good dental hygiene, but this was too much. It felt like during the wayward hours, someone was slowly turning him into a doll. Doctor Curdle would love that. Maybe he'd finally send him to the psych ward.

Jughead dressed quickly. He stuck to his usual wardrobe. Anything remotely black and a pair of ruffed up jeans. His beanie came next, flopping over still damp raven curls. The beanie had been a gift from his little sister, just before she left. Jughead wore it every day. It was like a comfort blanket. Though when he came to after blacking out, the beanie was always half way across the room, or dumped near the door. That morning, it was on the couch, laying on an old pizza box. Maybe Curdle was right about sleepwalking.

The crisp morning breeze was good to him, blowing his hair, sending strands dancing over his eyes and easing the tension holding his body hostage. The walk to school wasn't long, and Jughead used the time to try and grasp onto anything from those lost twelve hours. The aches and pains were the same as every morning, but the bruises were getting worse. They painted his skin like a canvas. Doctor Curdle had suggested his skin was far too sensitive, or perhaps they were linked to damage in blood vessels leaking blood, leading to discoloration of the flesh. Jughead didn't like the way the doctor had said "flesh" with a creepy smile, or that he had once again brushed off a sure sign of injury. Jughead knew they were bruises. They hurt like a bitch, and definitely weren't all in his head.

It was maddening to him, that a so-called professional like Doctor Curdle, hadn't taken more interest. At the time he was fifteen years old. He could have been getting hit by his old man, and yet the Doctor just didn't care. At seventeen, Jughead was sure Curdle wouldn't even see him, probably shoving Narcolepsy down his throat once again. Which Jughead could believe, if it wasn't the state of him when he woke up, his memory blank. Besides, Narcolepsy was a condition where patients collapsed multiple times. He only passed out once. At the same time, every night. Surely that should cause alarm bells. 

However, in Riverdale, the teenagers were often left to fend for themselves. Unless they had parents who gave a damn. The rest were left to suffer alone. 

Walking along the long, narrow sidewalk on the way to school, Jughead kicked through dead leaves, his foggy mind beginning to slowly clear. It was the start of April, but didn't feel like it. The sky was stark white, masking the sun which was trying to poke through. He wore his Levi's jacket wrapped around his waist, enjoying the icy breeze that flitted down his bare arms. It was a startling relief from his suffocating trailer. Riverdale High was as overbearing as normal. The second he stepped inside, the hall was packed with hyperactive kids yelling and laughing at each other. They stood in groups, blocking his way to the lockers. Jughead dropped his head, attempting to make himself as small as possible. Just like everything else, Jughead's condition wasn't a secret. But nothing really was in Riverdale. It didn't take long for word of mouth to get out, before he was known as "that boy who collapses" when he in fact hadn't fallen asleep once in school.

That didn't stop the looks of sympathy, and the forced smiles from his fellow Juniors. Kids who hadn't even spoken to him. 

"Watch out!" 

Jughead came to an abrupt stop, his head snapping up at the voice. In front of him, there was a ladder, and standing on top of it, trying desperately to stick a banner on the wall with the words VIXEN TRYOUTS!!! in blue and gold cursive, was Betty Cooper. The girl wore pastel colours as usual; a light pink sweater and blue shorts, blonde hair tied into a strict ponytail. She was on her tiptoes, trying to sellotape the end of the poster to the wall, but the ladder was trembling under pressure. It took a few moments for Jughead to realize there was blue and gold glitter decorating her pink cheeks, lips lined with silver. It was a good look for her. Though of course he didn't say that out loud

Jughead had known of Betty since Kindergarten, but they had never spoken a word to each other. Which sucked, if he was honest. She seemed like a nice girl, one he wouldn't mind sharing a Pops milkshake with. Betty wasn't even looking at him, her attention on her poster. He took a moment to marvel the girl's legs which looked far too sculpted to perfection for a cheerleader. He had a hard time figuring out how she could balance on the ladder. She must have good upper body strength to stretch herself out like that.

"Hello?! Earth to Jones!"

The voice had come from behind him. Jughead spun around to be faced with Veronica Lodge, bearing her usual scowl. The mayors daughter. Also, queen of Riverdale High. Well, alongside Cheryl Blossom. Veronica stood with her arms folded across a fitting navy dress, probably more expensive than his trailer. Her hair was unusually mussed up, held together in uneven pigtails, strands hanging fervently in narrowed green eyes. The hairstyle was...different. Though Jughead couldn't judge. The girl made any hairstyle look like it was styled by some hot shot barber from New York, where she'd come from. Veronica too bore pretty blue and gold face paint which only made her honey coloured skin shine brighter. It must be a special day, though Jughead didn't pay attention to school events. He had attended one pep rally, and that was to get a free chilli dog and Coke. 

Like Betty, Jughead hadn't spoken to Veronica. He kept his distance. The girl was far too intimidating. Her father owned the town. If he got on the wrong side of the ice queen herself, he was done for. Veronica was glaring daggers, and Jughead could only frown at her, one eyebrow cocked. Finally, she rolled her eyes. "You're in the way!"

"Oh." Jughead jumped back, his gaze going back to Betty, who had successfully pinned the banner to the wall. She admired it with a smile. Again, Jughead couldn't take his eyes off of the girl. The way she was balancing perfectly, not a care in the world. Betty's eyes were bright, her lips curved into a smile. "It looks great, V!" 

The bumbling blonde clapped her hands together in delight, grinning down at her friend.

Veronica nodded. "Of course it does! You designed it, Betty! Now come down off that ladder before you fall." The raven haired girl grabbed the ladder to stabilise it, while Betty climbed down. She was on the second step from the top, her leg dangling to get foot of the next one down, when something, or someone, slammed into Jughead's back. He had been far too busy watching in awe as the blonde began her slow descent down the ladder, Jughead hadn't seen the shock of red curls careening towards him like a freight train. Unbeknown to him, a clumsy Bulldog had been in his own state of mind fog and confusion, head in the clouds, music corked in and on full blast, prying at his own stolen time. 

The impact was painful. Whoever had slammed into him was all muscle, and not much of anything else. There shouldn't have been much damage. After all, it was a human who had hit him, not a goddamn tank. But it felt like it. Jughead fell forwards, his head spinning. Through the buzzing in his mind, he realised a domino effect had gone into play. He'd been slammed into and stumbled into the ladder, which began to fall, a blur of gold and glitter plummeting with it. A sharp scream which could only be Veronica filled his ears. But he'd failed to notice as soon as the Bulldog had crashed into him, something had spiked through Jughead's subconscious; An overwhelming urge to hit back.

No. Not hit. Jughead wanted to turn around and smash his fist into his assailants jaw.

Through flickering lashes while the world around him began to spin unnaturally, Jughead hit the ground face first. Black spots danced in his vision, and something he didn't know or understand...snapped. when his head smashed onto the floor, something hidden, woven inside his brain, a leeching parasite clinging onto him, splintered.

And Betty Cooper, ladder and all, fell on top of him. 

* * *

The world was blurry, an ache stabbing its way across his forehead. 

Firstly, Jughead was aware of his reality slipping away quickly; brightly coloured walls and steel grey lockers making way for a pitch black sky, crumbling brick walls that dipped into oblivion. The sound of voices, mostly Veronica's panicked yelling at his accidental attacker, started to dull, becoming white noise in his ears.

_"Archie, you idiot!"_

_"Shit, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking, Veronica."_

_"You're never thinking! God, you're going to have to help me. He weighs a tonne!"_

And then...clarity.

He was somewhere deep in the crevices of Riverdale, an underworld no teenager should find himself in. Jughead had sniffed out his prey like a predator, but there was nothing supernatural about him. At least not the one you're thinking. Jughead was quick like a snake, darting across concrete, pushing himself through the night. His eyes weren't quite focused. There was a glassiness to them which only held compliance and loyalty.

When he came to an abrupt stop, Jughead smiled. His dead eyes brightened.

Gotcha. The word was in his head, but he wasn't allowed to say it. He only spoke when he was given rights to. That wasn't tonight. 

Tonight, he'd cornered his prize.

His feet were bare. The concrete was slimy and wet, something warm congealing between his toes. Blood. But Jughead didn't think much of anything, standing in a growing vein of stark crimson. When did the ground start bleeding? The thought grazed his mind, but only lightly. Maybe things were different in this world. The concrete beneath his feet bled, and the breeze smelled of singed flesh. An ignition somewhere close, choking the air.

Someone was playing with fire.

He had a fairly good idea who it was.

Red was a strange colour, Jughead thought to himself. It was far too eye catching, especially bad for staining. His shirt had been white a few hours ago; a smart button down with a crimson collar. Now, it was covered in splashes of scarlet, dyeing starched white an even scarier shade of red. He stood with his back straight, hard eyes narrowed into slits. There was a man slumped against the wall. His identity didn't mean anything to Jughead. He was instead trying to figure out the trajectory of the perfect shot. Between the eyes? That seemed like the best way. But his master had ordered a blood bath. Cocking his head, Jughead tightened his grip on the gun, his tongue sticking out.

The gun melded easily into his hands as always, but Jughead always preferred a knife. While a gun was quick and silent, a knife drew blood. It brought on choked gasps for mercy. For his master to stop. And he never gave mercy. Jughead liked to follow in his master's footsteps. For now though, he only had a pistol. He clicked the safety off, and the man let out a sharp cry, backing further into the crumbling brick wall.

The man was silhouetted in the dark, a shadow beneath a starless sky. His face was mostly hidden, but a wrenching sob escaped lips shaped into an O.

"Please," The man whined. "I have children. A beautiful wife." Eyes blew wide and hopeful. "You're a kid yourself! Have mercy, please!"

Jughead regarded the man with disgust. Pitiful. The man was scum. Just like his master had stated. He took a step forward, his shadow dancing across redbrick. His lips were sewn shut by the command, choking back any comebacks that slipped through the barrier in his mind. Finding the right trajectory, he pulled the trigger, unblinking. 

Part of him wondered where his empathy was. His feeling for this grovelling man. But Jughead figured empathy was yet another feeling which had been torn from him. 

Bulls-eye. He never missed a target. The man dropped to the ground, a growing vein of red stemming around him. Jughead stared at the body for a moment, assessing how it would be cleaned up. He stepped back, shoving his gun back into his belt. Jughead straightened his collar like he'd been taught. He smoothed down his mostly ruined shirt. 

"Mission accomplished?"

Turning around, he saw familiar golden curls, tangled knots that fell in green eyes as lifeless as his own. Betty Cooper was scantily dressed for an outing. He figured she'd just come from a client. The girl's lips were bruised a little. Whoever she'd been scheduled to fuck had probably been rough. The girl was dressed in the same button down and crimson collar, except instead of pants, Betty wore a skirt short enough to attract all the attention. While Jughead's attributes were his hair and eyes, and body, so well toned and sculpted to perfection, Betty's was her innocence. Clients paid in full to get the full package. Jughead found himself gazing at Betty's legs, at the bruises littering her pale skin, and thinking of his own. How much pleasure he felt when he should have felt pain. He still felt their breath on his face, their touch all over him, marking him forever. But he wasn't allowed to think like that. Jughead only existed in these hours to serve his master, and the clients he was assigned to. He would smile and allow them to take him. Because it was his masters orders. And he would never go against his master.

Sometimes, the two of them were put together. Most of the time it was to show them off, but Jughead had found that Betty was his favourite. Even if he wasn't allowed them, and hell, not even an opinion. But he'd found the girl was softer. Her touches weren't as desperate. They felt more like a feather dancing across his skin. 

Betty surveyed him, her eyebrows pushing together in perhaps confusion, if that was allowed.

"Jones, are you done here?"

And like clockwork, Jughead replied. "Yes." He glanced at the body. "That's the last one."

She hummed, nodding. But she didn't tear her gaze from him.

Jughead knew Elizabeth Cooper was off limits, outside of a client's show. As was Archie Andrews. The two of them were specifically kept away from him. It was only rarely when he saw either of them. According to his master, it was for his own good. Yes. His own good. It was for his own good. 

But the blonde was moving towards him, her steps so timid, heels clacking on concrete. Her arms twined around his neck, hot breath flitting in his ear.

"I've had a long night," she murmured softly. "Why don't you make me feel good, Juggie?" Betty let out a soft moan. "I'm sick of not being able to feel." Her words sent shivers down his spine. Shivers that shouldn't be there. Jughead tensed. He wasn't allowed to feel pleasure, unless it was a client. Unless he was working under the beady eyes of his master. The breath was dragged from his lungs when Betty shoved him against the wall, pinning him to slimy brick. The girl's eyes were almost frenzied. Starving. 

"No matter what I do," this time she spat in his ear. He could sense her trembling, her body radiating heat that felt good on his bare arms. "I can't fucking feel, Jones. All I can feel is them. All over me. Plaguing me. They're everywhere, Juggie." Where tears should have been, her eyes were bone dry. "I smile like a good little girl like my master said and let them fuck me," Betty pressed her head into his chest. "And that's when I feel everything. Its too much. Too much feeling, Jug. Too much fucking feeling!"

Through clenched teeth it seemed like Betty was...angry. Furious. For some reason, that caused a shift inside him. Without speaking, without saying anything, Jughead pulled the girl to him. And there was no feeling. There never was. None of them felt anything. 

But it was good to pretend. 

His mind began to blur, that familiar fog taking over. Her touches should have been sweet. Her moans should have set something off inside of him. But there was nothing. All there was, was Betty Cooper straddling him, gasping out his name. Her thin fingers were around him, tracing him, trying to incite euphoria. Like all those filthy hands that touched him. But Betty Cooper was out of bounds. His master did not want them together. 

So that left him only feeling their touches. Hearing their moans. Their sickening grins when lay down obediently on a bed made of velvet sheets and silk pillows.

Nothing. 

Fucking nothing. Betty seemed to realize this too. Her touch slackened, and she bumped foreheads with him. Her eyes said so much, and let she stayed silent. 

A voice splintered their moment, if you could even call it that. They jumped apart, compliance sliding back into place. 

"What are you two doing?

Walking towards them was the second person who was out of bounds. Red hair stuck out in unruly curls, empty brown eyes unblinking at them. 

Archie Andrews, bearing the crimson collared shirt, came into view. There was a gun in his hand, held naturally, his finger teasing the trigger. His eyes were cold, lips quirking into a disapproving smile. Which of course had no feeling.

Archie was on duty like him tonight, but Jughead knew he'd flitted through clients earlier. The boy's were especially popular. Though Archie's skin remained unblemished. At least his face. He folded his arms, unfazed at how exposed the other two were.

"Are you two going to explain yourselves?"


	2. Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead is awake. 
> 
> Archie and Betty are not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is getting me through this lockdown, i love writing it :D
> 
> not completely edited, so a few mistakes. Sorry in advance, my comp died during my last edit .

* * *

Jughead sat up so fast he was sure he was going to throw up. Bile burned in the back of his throat, but he swallowed it down quickly. His head was killing. But it was a different type of pain. No longer a dull, monotonous thud, the pain instead felt like something had torn inside of his head. A wound he didn't realise he'd had, opening back up, stitches coming apart. But for once, that suffocating fog that had plagued him for so long, weighing down on his head, was gone. The relief was short lived however. Especially when he heard voices. They didn't quite register yet. Instead, Jughead was relaying whatever the hell he'd seen. The vision that had struck his mind like an acid flashback felt more like a memory; a splinter of memories that had been stolen from him for so long, picked from his mind. Everything about it felt real. The icy concrete tickling the soles of his bare feet. The blood between his toes, stuck to his skin. Jughead still felt the phantom gun melded into his hand. The crack of the bullet slamming into his drums. The graze of Betty Cooper's breath, warm on his neck. Her soft pleas.

The voices seeped back into his ears, getting progressively louder. It was like being submerged underwater. Part of him was relieved he was no longer in that horrific place, but a lingering piece of him wanted to go back, to see more. Understand more.

Because for the first time in two years, his head was beginning to clear. What had previously felt real, no longer did. And the frightening visions he'd experienced, he was afraid were in fact reality. But it couldn't be. Whatever he'd seen couldn't be what had been suppressed during the blackouts; the reality of his wayward outings.

A voice spiked. Familiar. It was a smooth hum, a voice he subconsciously gravitated towards. "Oh, thank God he's okay! I was scared we'd have to call an ambulance. Does anyone know how to check for concussion? Betty, are you sure you're good?"

A much softer murmur. This time he flinched away. "I think so? He broke my fall."

Slowly, Jughead opened his eyes, squinting when the bright light hit. It took Jughead a moment to realize a torch was being shone in his face. Blinking through the confusing deluge of yellow, he counted three heads looming over him. He recognised the raven head automatically. Veronica Lodge. Her eyes were wide, lips stretched into a grimace. The blue and gold glitter looked prominent on her skin from that angle. Jughead blinked slowly. Next to the raven head, looking like she herself was going to throw up, was Betty Cooper. And leaning over the two girls, regarding him with curiosity, brown eyes almost childlike, Archie Andrews. Jughead felt his chest tighten. Any other day, he'd see nothing in Betty and Archie. They were just classmates. Kids he walked past every day. But when he squinted at Betty, he didn't see her friendly smile or sparkling green eyes, he saw the girl in the alleyway. He saw the girl with bruised lips and desperate eyes. Desperate to feel. Swallowing hard, Jughead shuffled away from them, his chest clenching, and Betty looked hurt for a moment, before pasting a smile on her lips. 

"It's Jughead, right?" Her eyes were sincere. But Jughead couldn't look past what he'd seen. Though how could it have been real? Elizabeth Cooper was Riverdale High's so-called good girl. The version he had witnessed was a different person completely. There was no ponytail. In its place were frazzled golden curls and skin blossoming black and yellow. Jughead could still hear her moans as they held each other, her arms pinning him against a wall that dug harshly into his spine. He no longer felt the need to fill a void inside of him, starving him, a vicious monster tearing a hole inside his heart. But it was lingering, a phantom sensation he wanted to grasp onto. Even if it hurt.

Jughead didn't answer the girl, afraid of what he'd say if he did open his mouth. He nodded, and the girl smiled brightly. "I thought so! You're a junior, right?"

Again, he nodded, swallowing hard.

Jughead took stock of his surroundings. An empty classroom. There were desks pushed back in the corner, and he was sitting on rough carpet. The three of them stepped back, though were still regarding him with varying states of worry. Veronica straightened up and folded her arms across her chest. She was the only one he hadn't seen a twisted version of, and somehow that terrified him. The girl must have caught his rabbit-caught-in-the-headlights expression, because her eyes narrowed. Veronica cocked her head, green eyes studying him curiously. "What's up with you? We're not going to bite."

"Veronica, give him space." Archie rolled his eyes at the girl, before turning his attention to Jughead. "You okay, man?" He ran a hand through his hair nervously, his expression turning sheepish. "I was completely out of it, dude. I'm sorry for slamming into you like that." His shoulders moved in a shrug. "I had... a long night."

"Clearly." Veronica chirped. "You nearly killed him, Archie Andrews."

The redhead lost his smile. His expression radiated genuine sincerity. But Jughead couldn't see the boy in front of him. He blinked rapidly, and darkness took over once more, plunging him back onto the alleyway. Betty was still half naked, wrapped around him, Archie cocking his head, still swinging the gun lazily. "Well?" Archie demanded, his voice a low grumble. The breath got stuck in Jughead's throat. All he was seeing was the shadow with the gun and empty eyes staring back at him, lips curved into a thoughtless smile. A toneless voice echoing in the crevices of his skull. Jughead couldn't shut it up, no matter how hard to tried. The voice was a relentless whisper, leeching onto his thoughts. It was so loud. So painful. "Are you two going to explain yourselves?"

No. 

No, it couldn't be real!

"Are you...okay?"

Archie's real voice penetrated the mind fog that once again engulfed him. When he squeezed his eyes shut and opened them, the Bulldog was once again in front him.

"Of course." Jughead managed to get out shakily. Archie didn't look convinced.

Feeling sick to his stomach, Jughead watched Archie sit back on his knees, his lips pulling into a small smile. He half expected him to pull out a gun. But of course not. He wasn't in that world anymore. Though no matter how much he tried to convince himself it was a vivid hallucination brought on by the knock to his head, Jughead couldn't take his eyes off of the Vixen and the Bulldog. All he saw were crimson collars. Starched white shirts tucked into pressed pants. Archie's red hair was its usual tousled mess of flickering hues, freckles dotting pale cheeks. He wanted to flinch away from the boy, but the redhead looked wracked with guilt. He'd taken off his Letterman jacket and screwed it up, using it as a makeshift pillow for him. Though he couldn't imagine why. 

Jughead had never exchanged words with the redhead, it was practically social suicide to talk to someone so high up on the social hierarchy. Archie Andrews was a Bulldog, and he was invisible. That's what it was supposed to be. The only time he had communicated with the redhead, was back on a shadowy alleyway. When he held a gun so expertly, shaped into the flesh of his hand. While the Bulldog's eyes were devoid of all thought and feeling. Like he'd been emptied out, his soul completely ripped away, leaving a shell in place.

And Betty Cooper. Her eyes sparkled with a certain gleam. But not what he was looking at now. It was a look of submission that she was trying to fight, managing to reclaim her mind to allow herself forbidden feeling. Jughead chewed his lip. In this reality he had peeked into, Archie and Betty had been under some kind of control, which was evident in the way they moved; empty eyes and lips twisted into thoughtless and emotionless smiles. Jughead had been there too. He had held a gun. Pointed it at the man, and...

Bulls-eye. 

The words were still lurking in the back of his mind. And part of him knew his lips had uttered them. Spoke them into the freezing night. With them came the nameless man's screams for mercy. His mercy. But he had lifted the gun. So calm and confident. There hadn't been a speck of hesitance or empathy. Jughead's heart started to pound. His chest ached. The three kids in front of him blurred as he fought against blacking out once more. He was seeing the cavernous hole in the man's forehead. The sickening thud of his body hitting the ground. The blood, so red, so fucking red, stemming around him...

The world tipped to the side when Jughead found himself back on his feet, his heart in his throat. Tears burned his eyes. "I'm fine." He spluttered out. That was a lie. It felt like the world he knew was crumbling. Archie and Betty felt like they were more than strangers, more than classmates. Whatever had imploded in his head brought enough clarity to tell him he knew them. Broken pieces of him that he couldn't find, couldn't reach, knew them. And yet something was still there, blocking him from seeing everything.

His legs started to shake, threatening to give way. He started towards the door, seeking some kind of comfort, even if it was the dull white walls of the boys bathroom. Jughead didn't realize he was crying until warm tears salted his lips, trailing down his cheeks. He was mortified. Suddenly it was so much harder to breathe. Betty was quick to block him, stumbling in his way. She held out her hands, palms out, green eyes wide with alarm.

Jughead hated the way she looked at him. Like she knew him. Cared about him. 

"Hey!" Betty and Archie seemed to move as one, crowding around him while Veronica stood with her arms still folded. She didn't lose the look of irritation prickling in her expression. "Jughead, you don't look so good." Betty gently took his hand, and he fought against a cry which threatened to tear from his throat. Archie nodded, and the two of them seemed to share a look. Which didn't make sense. Betty was a Vixen, but she never hung out with Bulldogs. Jughead was fairly sure the two of them didn't even acknowledge each other. But right here and now, he couldn't help noticing they already knew what to do and how to calm him. The sick feeling coiling in his gut only got worse. 

Betty and Archie managed to sit him back down, and Jughead could do nothing but let them settle him onto the floor. His head was still spinning, his thoughts wayward. Every time he looked at Betty, he felt her teeth nibbling his earlobe, her hands working on him, trying to make him feel something that had been so cruelly torn away. His own hands had streaked through tangles of her hair, swiping none-existent tears from her cheeks. 

Jughead bowed his head, his cheeks flaming. He couldn't look at her. If he did, he'd only see the other Betty. Keeping his gaze glued to the pattern on the carpet, Jughead avoided making eye contact with either of them. But neither Archie nor Betty were getting the hint. They sat in front of him. Archie on his knees, while Betty sat cross legged. 

Veronica still hadn't moved, instead staying glued to the spot. Maybe he was imagining it, but Jughead swore he felt her gaze burning into him. 

"Do you want something to drink?" Archie reached into his bag and pulled out a sports bottle. He waved it with a hopeful smile. "I have some orange juice?"

Betty nodded and took the bottle, screwing off the plastic top. "Here." She handed it him, and Jughead stared at it dumbly. 

"Dude," Archie chuckled. There was a flicker of amusement on his face. "You drink out of it."

Jughead frowned at the bottle for way longer than necessary, before the words made sense in his mind. But he didn't take the bottle. When he reached out for it, pain struck once more, sending prisms once again dancing in his eyes. Letting out a soft breath, he instinctively reached to the back of his head, fingers smoothing over his scalp.

"I should go." Jughead heard himself saying, but the words didn't hit the sound barrier. Another wave of agony hit, causing him to gasp audibly, his fingers dancing across his forehead, looking for something that he didn't understand. There was only a faint thought. So faint. His own voice, crying out, straining against the dark.

Betty dropped the bottle, her hand going to her mouth. "Jughead?"

But he couldn't hear her. Betty Cooper's voice fell into incoherent white noise, whistling in his ears. 

Instead, through flickering lashes, he saw a head of red curls and a ponytail back in the dark; himself, standing in blood, surrounded by bodies. Betty stepped over each one daintily, like she was a child playing a game. In Archie's hand was a knife. He reached out and took it, slender fingers wrapping around the plastic handle. The teeth of the blade was already painted scarlet, and he lowered himself to a still squirming shadow on he ground. Still alive. Still breathing. Their panicked breaths filled his ears. 

_"Please."_

Squeezing his eyes shut, Jughead shook his head. Not real. The cold air, the concrete stinging his bare feet. The bodies on the ground, splayed out, limbs twitching.

_"Please!"_

They weren't real.

Something snapped inside his head, and he felt carpet once more. He slammed his hands down, running them over rough fibres, anchoring himself to a reality he understood.

"Jughead, I think we need to take you to the nurse. You're clearly concussed."

Vomit this time seared his throat. Swallowing it down took effort. His eyes flickered open, only to be faced with hers, riddled with worry. Betty was so close. Her breath tickled his cheeks, and it felt so familiar. Like he'd felt it a thousand times before. 

He had to get away. Away from her. Away from them. 

"I have class." He managed to keep his voice steady. Jughead didn't wait for the girl to reply, darting across the classroom and yanking the door open. Veronica danced out of the way, but her gaze didn't leave him. Betty's voice followed him, but she didn't pursue. Maybe that was a good thing. If she did, he'd crack and tell her what he had seen. There wasn't a hope in hell he had that Betty Cooper would believe him; believe this twisted version of her that only existed inside of his head. The Betty Cooper that had begged him to make her feel something. The girl covered in blossoming bruises who had wrapped herself around him, hollow eyes craving something that both of them had lost.

"Jughead, wait!" 

The school hallway was mostly empty apart from stragglers heading to class. The boys bathroom was easy to get to, thankfully. Jughead could feel a panic attack brewing. He skidded on the flooring, fighting to once again keep his balance. Since knocking his head, his mind seemed to want to pull him back into the darkness. Pushing through pale blue doors, Jughead dove into a cubicle and locked it behind him, falling to his knees. The tears came thick and fast, and he couldn't stop them. The pain felt like lightning bolts slamming into the back of his skull. Whatever he'd seen wasn't real. 

Not real. 

But he'd felt the gritty concrete. Betty's breath. Her touches. The gunshot which penetrated the air, deafening his ears. The man's cry which hadn't affected him. He'd been stone cold stoic, whenever this was. But now the emotions that had been delayed, the ones he hadn't been allowed to feel...they hit him like a wave of icy water, one after the other. The scene relayed in his mind like a stuck record. The man's pleads. 

The gunshot hitting the stranger square in the forehead. Perfect trajectory. He saw himself, frowning at the body with disinterest. The gun was still stuck to his hand.

Jughead clawed at his hair, swallowing a scream as reality and a splintered world hidden from him for so long, clashed. He ripped off his jacket and shirt, shaking fingers going over bruises that still stung. His back was covered in them. The marks that Doctor Curdle said were burst blood vessels, that they were nothing to worry about, and were in fact all in his head. He recalled every morning he'd woke up feeling stiff and sore. Violated. Blood spatters he couldn't explain. Bruising around his neck he was told was a factor of sensitive skin. Betty's whine slipped into his mind, uninvited, as he pulled off his jeans and sat on icy tiles, running his hands down discoloured olive skin. His fingers prodded and poked below his knees, where scars and scratches and bloodied gashes painted him. Both old and new. As well as ones the doctor turned a blind eye at. 

"I'm sick of not being able to feel." Betty whimpered, a ghostly cry, and a hysterical sob built in his throat, but he forced it down, becoming more and more manic. His gentle touches became harsh, pinching and clawing at blemishes he hadn't understood. His body was his own. Jughead had been so sure of it. So sure that he'd never shared it with anyone. Never had to. But through these splintered visions, a stark reality was cracking open. "I smile like a good little girl like my master said and let them fuck me," Her voice, so toneless. And yet there were flickers of emotion bleeding through. Her voice grew progressively louder, a sharp screech pulverising his thoughts. "And that's when I feel everything. It's too much. Too much feeling, Jug. Too much fucking feeling!"

His head hit the toilet seat, but all Jughead managed was to dry heave when sensations knocked into him, one after the other. Bits of memory that he shouldn't remember, what had been suppressed and hidden from him for so long. And just like those forbidden emotions, they were very real; Clammy pawing hands that brushed over every inch of him. Harsh kisses down his neck and crooked teeth piercing his skin while he lay back and let them. He smiled when he was supposed to. Cried out when they ordered him. 

A tsunami of pent up anger and confusion bubbled over, searing his veins. "Stop." Jughead choked on phantom breath, sobbing at faceless monsters reaching out for him, his whimpers twisting into a screech he couldn't bite back. He screamed into shaking hands until his throat was raw, until he was trembling so hard he could barely hold himself upright. After what felt like forever of staring dazedly at himself, pushing on yellowed bruises. Some of them were fresh; ugly shapes tainting his skin. Jughead tipped his head back. 

Breathe. He told himself. He had to breathe. his gaze stuck to the flickering bulb in the cubicle, a sort of comfort in the mellow light. He took notice of the four walls surrounding him and counted the corners, willing his lungs to fill with air. 

Outside, the door creaked open, and Jughead froze, his chest still forcing convulsive gasps through his mouth and nose. He pressed his lips together, squeezing his eyes shut.

He was losing his mind, Jughead told himself. A lapse in sanity. 

"Jughead?"

The voice sent shivers creeping up his spine. He pressed a hand over his mouth, stifling the sobs wracking his chest. Archie. Jughead let his eyes flicker open and he swiped at his cheeks, sucking in a breath. The boy's footsteps were hesitant before they came to stand in front of the cubicle. Expensive converse bearing the school colours poked through the gap. For a second, there were smears of red on the boy's shoes. Blood. Blinking rapidly Jughead frowned at them, scrutinising for bloodied soles. But they were white once again. Shuffling backwards, Jughead bit down so hard on his lip he tasted blood. He was losing his goddamn mind. The Bulldog wasn't some fucked up assassin in a trance. Archie Andrews was just a kid from his school. That thought brought him momentary calm. Which meant it was a figment of his imagination. Betty. The violations done to him without consent. The gun in his hand. The dead man. Elizabeth Cooper touching him. 

It wasn't real. 

And yet his gaze landed on a particular bruise which looked fresh, pale yellow and blue spreading down his thigh. 

Archie waited a moment before clearing his throat awkwardly, shuffling his feet. "Are you okay, man? Look, I really didn't mean to knock you out. I can take you to the school nurse if you're feeling sick?"

It took everything inside of him to suffocate lingering sobs. Breathe. Jughead inhaled and then exhaled. Just like when he woke up after blacking out. Slowly, he removed his hand from his mouth. "I'm fine." He hiccuped, grabbing his shirt and pulling it back on. "I ate something and it's come to bite me on the ass." Jughead was surprised how clear and steady his voice was. But Archie's converse didn't budge from the gap.

"Are you crying?" 

Irritation prickled inside of him. "I said I'm fine," Jughead gritted out. "Don't you have class?"

This time Archie let out a scoff. "Dude, I was just seeing if you were okay. Betty Cooper sent me, since she can't come in here. But I feel shitty after knocking you over like that. Look, I had a rough night. I haven't been sleeping great, and if I'm being honest, I don't even know what the fuck I've been doing. I keep having these-"  
  
Jughead was quick to interrupt. "You can leave me alone now. I'm good."

"But I was just seeing if you were okay. Betty said you looked concussed. And if you are, you should, I dunno, like maybe get your head checked?"

Jughead stood up, using the cool marble walls to balance himself as he tugged on his jeans and grabbed his bag. But he didn't open the stall yet. He sat down on the closed lid of the toilet and stuck his head in his lap. "You didn't have to. I really am fine."

"You don't sound fine." Archie sighed. Another splitting creak signalled him leaning against the door. "Was it Veronica who upset you? I know she can be a bitch, but she's worried about you too. She was the one who suggested calling an ambulance."

Jughead almost laughed. So he could go back to Doctor Curdle and get pills that didn't work? His head snapped up and he glared daggers at the door. "No offence, but I don't know you." The words were pouring out of his mouth before he could bite them back. Saying it out loud was reassuring. Jughead didn't know Archie and Betty, and all of this was in his fucked up head. "So you don't have to stand there and pretend to care, okay? I told you multiple fucking times I'm fine, and I mean it. So go back to class."

Guilt burned inside of him, especially when without a word, Archie's sneakers disappeared from the gap, before his footsteps shuffled over to the door. The sound of it opening and then closing was music to Jughead's ears. He waited until he was sure Archie was gone, before stumbling out of the cubicle. He splashed himself with water and took several deep breaths, allowing himself to calm down and ignore the thoughts plaguing him. Jughead focused on his reflection. Not on the bruises braising his skin or his too white teeth. He looked at himself. At his own dull green eyes staring back, his pursed lips. 

When he was towelling his face and swollen eyes dry with a paper towel, Jughead came to a decision. Whatever the hell this was, he wasn't hiding from it anymore. 

Whether it was him finally losing his mind, or actual memories that had been cruelly taken away from him, he was going to find out what the fuck was going on. 

* * *

**7:45pm.**

Each coffee was black. There were eight in total. They lined the glass table, steam dancing in the air. No milk. Heaps of sugar. It was enough caffeine to keep any normal person buzzing through the night. But Jughead wasn't normal. At least that's what he'd realised. He blacked out at a specific time every single night. He woke up covered in unexplainable bruises, and was pretty sure he was losing his mind. Jughead sat on the worn, ratty sofa in the Jones living room and picked up a mug. He'd made sure the water was lukewarm so he wouldn't burn his tongue. Jughead downed the drink quickly, wincing at the bitter taste in the back of his throat. But he didn't stop. He drained the second cup and then the third, the fourth and fifth. His stomach complained, bile burning in the back of his mouth. After finishing the sixth and seventh cups, his gaze went to the door.

He'd locked it. Like every other night. But the clumsy mechanism on the door wasn't sturdy enough. He used to barricade it with chairs, way back when Jughead thought the blackouts were a factor of his crappy sleeping pattern and the trauma of his mother leaving him, and his father always being MIA. After drinking the last cup, nausea twisting his gut, Jughead made last minute preparations. If what he'd seen really was real, and not his imagination, he had to wake himself up. Again, Jughead had tried it in the past. But only timidly. Back when he was still hopeful the blackouts would stop. 

Jughead had bought several packets of needles and stuck them in the carpet, spike up. If he was to wake up and start sleep walking, he'd be jerked awake by stabbing himself in the bare flesh of his foot. He'd made sure they covered the carpet, leaving no square mercy. The pain would drag him out of sleep and he'd be able to see for himself what was truly going on during the blackouts. If he was crazy, or what he had seen was real. 

He shook his head, pouring himself another cup of coffee, drinking it quickly. His body was starting to react to the onslaught of caffeine. shivers rocketing down his spine, his legs trembling. But his gaze remained on the digital clock he'd set up in front of him.

**7:55pm.**

He braced himself, focusing on the bright red numbers that glared back at him. 

7:56pm. 

His fingers subconsciously rubbed the back of his neck, where bruises still stung. Still hurt to touch. Swallowing hard, Jughead downed another cup, trying to ignore his quaking hands. They wouldn't stop shaking. Even when he planted them in his lap. 

Another glance at the clock. His lips were dry, stomach dancing.

**7:59pm.**

Jughead leaned forward, his eyes following the numbers as they flickered to 8:00pm. 

Bracing himself for the usual dizziness that sent him to his knees, Jughead closed his eyes and took a deep breath, waiting to be swamped with darkness.

But nothing happened. 

Swallowing coffee still trying to climb its way back up his throat, Jughead counted sixty seconds before his eyes flickered open, and he was staring at the clock. 

**8:01pm.**

No. That couldn't be right. Jughead grabbed the clock, peering at the screen. But he wasn't seeing things. The time was right. 

Jughead waited longer, until the numbers displayed: **8:09.**

Nine minutes gone by, and no dizziness. No blackout. 

He'd stayed awake past eight.

At first, he didn't know what to do. The needles on the carpet seemed ridiculous now, as well as the coffee mugs. He cleared them up before ordering pizza. Extra cheese. His mind was overwhelmed. Jughead had missed so many evenings after eight, he forgot how to live normally. Questions still danced in the back of his mind. Why tonight of all nights for two years? What had changed? The thought was still picking away at the back of his head, as well as Betty Cooper's soft whine. Her feather like touches. Those sad eyes. 

Jughead found himself in a daze. He was standing in the kitchen with a slice of toast and an unopened tub of peanut butter, staring at the teeth of a carving knife sticking out of the sink, when three loud knocks shattered his reverie. His chest clenched, but then his eyes caught the old pizza box still laying on the sofa, piles of washing on top of it. 

His pizza. Of course. Slowly, he put down the toast and the spread, not even sure why he'd picked them up in he first place. He had to get his head together. The blackouts had stopped and he was fine. The rest...he'd figure out later. Because his head was starting to hurt. The same dull throbbing he woke up to began its epic comeback.

He could analyse the crazy visions when he didn't feel like sleeping for three weeks straight. 

Another sharp knock. This time impatient.

Jughead grabbed his jacket and pulled out a twenty dollar note and rushed to the door, unlocking it and yanking it open. 

The cool air hit him automatically, and he revelled in the breeze grazing his flushed cheeks. He held out his hand, still grasping the twenty dollar note, when he froze. 

He wasn't looking at the pizza guy. 

Jughead was looking at Archie Andrews, dressed in that same short sleeved shirt and crimson collar. The same one from the flickers of visions, the flashes that he thought weren't real. The redhead wasn't smiling like earlier, a sheepish look in wide browns. In fact, that Archie seemed like a hallucination. Instead, the boy's expression was empty. His eyes were hollow. Glassy. Staring right through him. Just like his vision. 

"You're late, Jones." Archie said, his tone almost robotic. His lip quirked. 

"And you're not dressed."

Jughead took a slow step back, his breath in his throat. His feet were glued to the floor. This couldn't be real. His eyes stung. This couldn't his reality.

His wayward hours.

The hours stolen from him. 

"Late?" The word came out in a choked out whimper. Once again, he saw himself with the gun. The perfect shot. A sickly smile spreading across his own lips.

"Yes." Archie replied. "Elizabeth is waiting for us." The redhead cocked his head, vacant eyes burning into his own. "Is there a reason why you weren't at our usual scheduled rendezvous?"

Opening his mouth to answer, Jughead couldn't get the words out. Before he could coerce some kind of reply, a familiar blur of blonde appeared, hurrying up the steps. She stood straight, green eyes as empty and void as Archie's. Betty Cooper. This time her hair was in a ponytail. But there was no blue and gold face paint and glitter on her cheeks, or the kind smile gracing her lips. She wore the crimson coloured shirt and a short skirt. Jughead felt his legs weaken when his gaze ran up and down her legs. All those marks. All those bruises. They were back. Betty regarded him with a startling blankness. The desperation that had haunted her expression in his vision had been wiped clean away. 

"Jones." Betty barked. Before he could stop her, she strode into the trailer like she knew the place. The girl walked straight over to a cupboard Jughead had never thought to look inside. Never given it a second glance. She pulled out a folded starched white shirt and pressed black pants. He didn't have to squint to see the familiar red collar.

Betty threw the bundle of clothes at him. 

"Get dressed. Our master is waiting in the car." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Leave kudos if you liked, and please let me know you're reading! I'm p sure ill be posting every two days lmao.


	3. Ocean eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Master" is finally revealed, and Jughead realises what he's capable of. And what he'd had torn away from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i never thought i'd write a fic like this lmao. it's so far away from what i usually write, but I'm enjoying it so far! Hope you enjoy! I'm having a lot of fun writing this :D

* * *

_Master_. 

The word felt familiar, like Jughead had said it himself. It felt comfortable on his lips and lodged in his throat as if it was constantly there, hanging onto every word that came from his mouth. Upon hearing it slip from Betty's lips, his mind welcomed it, slowly lulling him into a daze that clouded his thoughts. The word was warm. It cradled him, destroying all the bad thoughts. All the unnecessary cogitation that he didn't need. 

_He existed in these hours to serve his Master._

_Only his Master and his Master's clients._

The thought was definitely his, had been uttered from his lips. But it was no longer locked into the forefront of his mind. Instead it felt a whole world away, drifting further and further. For a moment he was caught between reality and dream. His head felt light. Strange. Like he was suddenly floating on a cloud. Jughead's eyes flickered, his lips quirking into an identical thoughtless smile. One that mirrored Archie and Betty's. "Master." Jughead repeated softly, as the word entangled itself in his thoughts, clawing for domination. It was as if his humanity had been snatched away in a second's notice. Jughead's hands dropped to his sides. His shoulders straightened. His eyes fluttered, a glassiness taking hold. But whatever had reclaimed his mind once again, let go. The lazy smile that had curled on his lips disappeared and his hands twitched at his sides. Jughead blinked, lips curving into a pained scowl. The fog cleared away, leaving his mind once more in perfect clarity. His fingers tiptoed across his temples, fingernails pinching at skin to keep him anchored. But that word was pushing through. Relentless. 

There was something he had to do. Jughead pawed at the back of his head, stroking along his scalp. His throat felt like it was closing up, a panic brewing in his gut. But it was old panic. It filled him once again, crying out for him to...to do something. 

His own cry was so faded, but it was there, screaming into the dark. 

There was a faint voice murmuring into his skull. But it sounded broken. Like television static. His lips curved around the word once more, struggling to let go of it. Master. It filled every inch of him, clawing at his brain, trying to squirm its way back into his thought process. It longed to devour Jughead Jones's mind once more, wiping away free will and plucking memories. Conditioning such a weak brain. A young mind susceptible to control. It had been lurking for two years, slowly turning a defenceless fifteen year old High School boy into a into a soldier. And when he was older; a slave. But it was weak. Compared to the crystalline orders streaming into the minds of Archie and Betty, the voice that whispered to him was pathetic. It was barely a voice at all, more of a splintered whimper. Which meant he was in control of his own mind once more. 

The knock to his head, Jughead thought dizzily. When Archie had knocked him out, whatever was inside his head, whatever had slithered inside his brain and turned him into a mindless puppet wasn't working properly. Jughead quickly came to this realisation and bent down to grab the bundle of clothes Betty had thrown at him. A fire burned in his chest, the overwhelming urge to run taking hold of him. But Betty was standing in front of him. Archie in the doorway. Even if he managed to make a run for it, they would find him. Judging from what he'd seen in his visions, the two of them were ruthless during these hours. Jughead fought to catch his breath. Regulate his thoughts. 

Stay calm, he told himself. His cell phone was on the glass coffee table, but who would he call? Did this so-called Master control the Sheriffs office? How the fuck had this person managed to put him, Archie and Betty into this type of trance? There was nothing there, at least when they were under. The Archie and Betty he knew, the Vixen and the Bulldog who had insisted on helping him at school, were nowhere to be seen. In their places were two strangers. Strangers this version of himself knew. Looking into Betty Cooper's eyes, there was an emptiness. They were void, stripped of the warmth that had sparkled in them this morning. Even the haunting glaze, lips that begged him to help her feel. All of it was gone. This girl was more of a shell. A monster with her face.

Jughead's gaze skipped to Archie's expression, and it was the exact same. There was a certain vacancy in the boys eyes that made Jughead's chest ache. As if he knew those coffee browns. More than a classmate. More than a Bulldog who never spared him a glance. Jughead found himself craving that sheepish smile, awkward eyes darting left and right, unsure to focus on him. But like the blonde, the redhead stared at him blankly, a deep abyss in eyes that had held friendliness. Now he was awaiting further orders. 

His breathing was quickening, chest tightening. Jughead swallowed. 

This was real. They weren't vivid hallucinations brought on after knocking his head. It was reality. This was what he'd been doing for the last two years. The reason why he was so tired all the time, why every piece of him ached, his skin painted with blackening bruises. He'd been turned into a murderous animal, a mindless soldier and body to play with. Another question burned. Like the hues in Archie's hair. How had he had his feeling stripped away? His emotions? Betty said she couldn't feel. Only what was done to her by the bastards who used her. Her feelings. Sensations brought on by touch. They had been taken away. And Jughead knew that he too had struggled to feel. Struggled to discern her, his nerve endings numb. Which begged the question: How? It didn't make sense. Fighting back a frustrated cry, Jughead clutched the clothes tighter to his chest. The coffee he'd downed was starting to slither its way up his throat, bitter and cold. He swallowed it.

The corners of Betty's lips quirked into a frown. "Jones, is something stopping you from carrying out our regularly scheduled assignment for our Master?"

"Master. Right." He said shakily, forcing himself to maintain the tone the other two had. Emotionless. Blank. Jughead stood a little straighter, training his eyes to stare right through the blonde. If he was going to find out what had been done to them, then he had to become the twisted version of himself. "And who exactly is our Master, Betty?"

There was that word again. It sent involuntary shivers up and down his spine. His eyes flickered once more, a dull pain inching its way across his forehead. He could feel whatever entity it was, trying to slip back into control. Jughead shook it away, wincing.

_Get out of my head._

_Get the fuck out of my head!_

Betty maintained her mechanical smile. "Jones, you know we are not allowed to ask questions. Only when we are given permission by our Master."

Jughead nodded slowly. "Of course." He'd have to try a different angle. "Is our Master waiting for us?"

"Yes. He is waiting in the car." She eyed him warily. "Get dressed. Our Master does not like it when we dress informally." 

Jughead bit back a hiss. "Right. Of course."

Archie started forward. His steps were intimidating, eyes narrowing into slits. Betty joined his side. "You're slow tonight, Jones. Our Master will expect a full report when we get to the car. We must be in perfect condition to continue serving."

Serving. Jughead fought back a disgusted scoff. Something snapped inside of him, a fury burning through his veins. Archie and Betty and...and him. They had been turned into playthings for this Master to play with. Jughead wanted to grab the heaviest thing nearby and slam it into the Bulldog and then the Vixen's head. But there was no guarantee they'd snap out of it. And no matter how sick he felt at the idea of meeting the man who had been puppeteering his mind and body for so long, he had to get understand why. Why him? Why Andrews and Cooper? Jughead thought to the bruises on himself, scattering his back and shoulders. And Betty. The marks all over her legs. Archie's skin was perfect; unblemished pale arms. Maybe that's what his attribute was. Maybe that's what the boy was sold as, along with his hair. Like Betty for her innocence. Jughead for his eyes and the rough look about him. All three of them had been degraded. Defaced. Abused.

Tears stung Jughead's eyes, but he revelled in them. Feeling. After so much memory of numbness had been removed. He didn't know what it felt like to have such a thing taken away. But something still lingered inside of him. The part of Jughead who remembered everything. The mindless killer. The sex toy. The submissive doll. 

He was fifteen years old when the blackouts started. How long had this been going on for?

"Jones!" Betty snapped. When his gaze flickered to her, she was scowling. "Get changed. Now. We are fifteen minutes behind schedule." 

"And we can't fulfil our Master's orders." Archie added. 

Blinking tears from his eyes and seeing no other choice, Jughead nodded. Without a word, and with trembling hands he was trying hard to hide, he pulled off his pyjama shirt and slipped on the white button down Betty had given him. It was short sleeved and he shivered at how fitted it was around his torso. More bile crept up his throat. 

He should have seen it in Betty and Archie. Their clothes were perfectly fitted. Betty was able to show off her curves, her skirt particularly tight. While Archie's arms bulged perfectly from the fabric. His toned chest could easily be seen through starched white material. As if someone had perfectly sized him up for the shirt. The two of them looked like they were on display in a Forever 21. Betty's golden hair and honey tones. Archie's fiery curls clashing flawlessly with the white of his shirt and pallid skin. Jughead found his hands running down the seam of his own shirt. It was expensive material, slipping through his fingers like silk. When he pulled on the pants, they were far too tight around his waist. But in someone else's eyes, he looked exemplary. 

He imagined himself; raven curls contrasting perfectly with the red and white clash of his shirt. Jughead wanted to pull it off. He wanted to tear into the material and bare it no mercy. Instead his hands dropped to his sides. The ignition in his blood which was bubbling over, he forced it down. Gritting his teeth, Jughead waited to get the green light. "Your collar." Betty said. Her monotone voice was starting to drill into his skull. "Button it up. Master likes us wearing our collars. Especially you."

More bile. It filled his mouth; Bitter coffee, a vicious fire trying to projectile.

Oh yeah? Jughead had to bite back the urge to shriek. Who is this guy, huh? Who is it, Betty Cooper? Who's doing this to us? Who would be sick enough to do this? Turning us into these brainless freaks? Why us, Betty? Why me? Why Archie? We have nothing in common! I don't know you guys! I've never fucking spoken to you in the seventeen years we've been alive and suddenly we're some sick bastard's personal puppets?

But he did know them. At least splintered pieces of him did. 

Jughead swallowed the words bulging on his tongue and did as he was told. Every second felt like a millennium. His fingers were shaking so much it took three tries to button all three. Though when his collar was done up, he felt like he was being strangled. 

Betty smiled in satisfaction before turning and walking out of the trailer. Archie followed. And he had no choice but to catch up to them. The three of them walked through the desolate trailer park. Jughead looked for loiterers hanging around, desperate for someone. Anyone. Who could help him. But there was no one. Even Sweet Pea and Fangs who usually hung around his trailer most of the night, laughing and drinking. They were nowhere to be seen. Jughead fought to keep his head up, back straight, shoulders rigid and elevated. He took notice of Archie and Betty's steps. They moved slowly, easily traversing through dirt and rubble. The two of them were silent, the white of their shirts glinting beneath a mellow glow cast from nearby streetlights dotted around.

In the distance, Jughead spotted the glow of headlights, the curve of a black Sedan sitting in the shadow. His heart plummeted into his gut. 

Archie and Betty got closer to the car, and Jughead stopped for a moment, skidding on gravel. His stomach catapulted. No. No, he couldn't mindlessly give himself to this person. He couldn't. Another stumbled step. He couldn't breathe. In front of him, the back door slid open with a mechanical whine, and Archie and Betty slipped inside. 

The door stayed open ajar, and Jughead found himself walking faster, gravitated towards the car. He sucked in a breath and straightened himself, adapting a zoned out look in his eyes. Lips slightly open so he didn't have a panic attack. Trying to avoid all eye contact with the figure in the front seat, Jughead climbed into the back of the car. It was a five seater. Plush leather seats and tinted windows. Archie and Betty were sitting in the back, their hands in their laps, twin expressions staring into oblivion. And the front seats were occupied by a man who looked to be in his late sixties with pale skin, wrinkled fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, and a shadowy figure.

He couldn't turn to get a proper look, despite the monumental urge inside of him. 

Jughead managed to squeeze himself between the two, sitting forwards. Blood pounded in his ears. The car lurched into drive, and he nearly flew forwards, clamping his mouth shut against a sharp cry. Luckily, he was neatly sandwiched between the Bulldog and the Vixen. The car was uncomfortably warm, and the collar was too tight. He started to raise his hand to loosen it slightly, and seeing his mistake, dropped his hands back into his lap. After several disorienting minutes of trying to keep down the dozen coffees he'd drank, the passenger seat squeaked when the mystery person occupying it shifted. 

"Seatbalt on, Jones. Then you'll tell me why the fuck you're nearly twenty minutes late."

Jughead froze. At least he did inwardly. On the outside he was stoic, staring forwards blankly like the others. But inside his head he began to whine. And that whine slowly morphed into a screech. His head burned. His body ignited into fire and rage that left no cell mercy. He'd felt this before. The hatred pinching his gut, clenching his chest until he was sure his lungs were going to pop. The pain came in startling waves across his skull and scattered memory remembered that voice. The smug smile in a tone which only spoke of triumph. While he was paralyzed. He couldn't move. His mind was being drained, emptied of names he fought to cling onto. Names he refused to let go. There were flashes of something silver, something sharp, being held between gloved fingers. 

His own muffled scream underneath something being shoved over his mouth and nose, suffocating him, killing him. 

Jughead didn't move. Didn't breathe. His lips quivered with words so hateful, so vile, there was no way he wouldn't be found out. 

He knew the voice, and more so the man who twisted in the chair to face the three of them. Icy blue eyes that were merciless, had been merciless as he'd begged and screamed to be let go. A gleaming shark smile. Olive skin that shined in the sickly lights coming from cars flashing by. Hiram Lodge. Veronica Lodge's father. The mayor of Riverdale. 

Part of him wanted to ask why. Why the three of them? Part of him wanted to wrap his hands around the man's neck until his eyes were bulging, until Hiram Lodge was the one begging for breath. Begging for mercy. But looking into the man's eyes, he didn't dare. Only held himself. 

"Well?" Hiram let out a disgusted noise. "Archie. Elizabeth. I want a report on Jughead's collection. Why was he not at the rendezvous?"

As if a switch had been pulled, the two of them straightened up next to him. "Permission to speak, Master?" Betty said sharply. 

Hiram nodded. "Granted."

Jughead was sure he was going to throw up. He squeezed his lips together, staring forwards. The motion of the car wasn't helping.

"Jughead Jones was not at the rendezvous. We went to his trailer to see if his programming had been triggered, which happens at exactly eight hundred hours. He was at his home, but he was unfit for work. Jughead was not wearing his allocated attire."

Programming? The word sent Jughead's thoughts into a tailspin. With the man distracted, he gripped the leather of his seat, gritting his teeth. What the fuck had Hiram done to them? Was that what the voice in his head? 

Hiram's brow furrowed. "He wasn't dressed? Huh. That's strange." The man's eyes flickered to him. "You've always been a good little soldier. Are you feeling under the weather?"

Trick question. Jughead snapped his gaze to Hiram, staring straight through the man's gleaming grin. He adapted an identical mindless smile on his lips. "No, Master." The words made him feel violated. Inhuman. But he couldn't crack now. 

"Mmm. Do you feel anything at all, Jones?"

Sweat beaded on his forehead. "No, Master."  
  
The man's lip curled. "And?"

The reply was already there at the forefront of his mind, still lingering. Fighting back a swallow, he said, "I exist to serve my Master and my Master's clients."

Another shark smile. "Wonderful. And you do a brilliant job, Jones. I've had wonderful feedback."

He stayed silent, trying to control the convulsive trembling rattling his body. Luckily, Hiram turned back around. 

The man reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a cigar, lit it and stuck it between his lips. "Archie and Jughead, your 9PM's are waiting. As is yours Elizabeth. But I need all three of you in my office. I've asked my clients to be patient."

For what? Jughead stiffened. He risked a glance at Betty. His heart ached for the girl. She stared forwards with a plastic smile. He half wondered what her reaction would be if he woke her up. If she opened her real eyes, wide and confused, and realised what had been done to her. Part of Jughead wanted that. He wanted the girl to understand where she was, and what was happening. But it would break her. Even not knowing the girl, Jughead knew if she was to come out of her trance, Betty would most definitely freak out. 

Archie. He'd kill Hiram. Jughead had no doubt. The boy was a tank. Even more so now as Hiram Lodge's soldier. 

"Is that understood?"

Archie and Betty nodded. "Yes, Master."

Jughead had to bite into his lip to suppress a cry. "Yes, Master."

"Good. I expect you in my office, and as usual, do not converse with any members of my family. Whether that is my wife or my daughter. I hope I make myself clear."

Veronica. Jughead silently simmered. Did she know about this? About what her father is doing to her classmates?

"Yes, Master." The three of them, Jughead included, said automatically. It took all of his self control not to pull a face. The The word "master" was starting to sound fake. 

Outside, the streets were mostly empty. And the slower the car got, the faster Jughead's heart slammed into his chest. It wasn't long before they pulled up outside of The Pembrooke. The driver hopped out, and opened the door for them to get out. 

Archie did, and then he followed, trying not to stumble. Betty jumped out after him. The others stood directly behind Hiram as the man strode into the Pembrooke. Jughead struggled to keep up with the other two, falling behind them. They were greeted by a clerk behind a desk. Jughead kept his head up straight. The Pembrooke was exactly what he expected it to be. Posh and pretentious. The clerk stood to attention. 

"Mr Lodge." He nodded, opening his mouth to say something else. But he shut it quickly, his gaze trailing over the three crimson collars.

Hiram shot the man a smile. "Trevor. I see you're new here. Please do not associate yourself with these three. If you so much as look at them, I will mention your name to many of my friends."

Trevor bowed his head. "Of course, Mr Lodge. I sincerely apologise."

"Don't make a habit of it." Hiram said over his shoulder, before stepping into a gold plated elevator. Archie and Betty stepped in, and Jughead dived in before the doors slid shut. They ascended to the Penthouse suite. When the elevator opened, Hiram walked out. 

He stopped them before they could follow. 

"One at a time." His teeth were gritted. 

"Yes Master." Archie and Betty droned. Jughead didn't even bother saying it, hoping Hiram would hear his robotic response in their voices. 

Hiram's office was large and homey. It had a brown carpet, a large desk situated in the middle, overlooking a huge window, where Riverdale towered. Such a small town trying to be New York. They were ordered to stand in front of his desk. Which looked expensive. Rich mahogany brown. Hiram sat down on a wooden chair with a plush cushioned seat.

"On your knees." The man ordered, a certain gleam in his eyes. A smug smile pulled at his lips. Jughead struggled to remain nonchalant. The other two dropped to their knees, and Jughead did, slower. His heart was pounding. When he hit expensive carpet which grazed his hands, Jughead realised how much control was over him, even being awake. He couldn't stand how the three of them positioned themselves. Dressed how he wanted. 

His mind was still Hiram's. His body was still Hiram's. And the helplessness that filled him was enough to make Jughead want to lurch forwards, grab the man by the scruff of his hair and slam it down repeatedly on the desk. Over and over again. 

Hiram leaned over in his chair with a smirk. "Who am I to you, Hmm?"

"Our Master." Archie said, bowing his head of crimson hair. 

"Who we gladly serve," Betty added. "As well as serving and satisfying our Master's clients in any which way we can."

"Our minds are yours," Archie continued. "For you to do so as you please."

A pause. Archie didn't continue. The redhead's words seemed to hang in the air. 

It took Jughead several seconds to realise it was his turn. Jughead's mouth went dry. He bowed his head too. They must have had some kind of speech they said to him every night, some sickening pledge that filled the bastard with power.

And he didn't know what he was supposed to say. 

Hiram shifted in his seat. "Jughead Jones? Do you have something you want to add?"

He opened his mouth, choking out a breath. His eyes burned into the carpet. 

"We serve...our master, and his clients-" His mumbled attempt, that was barely coherent, was interrupted by a soft voice, and the sound of a door closing. 

Jughead risked lifting his head for a second, and caught the flash of familiar raven black hair. Veronica. The girl walked into the room, before letting out a sigh.

"Daddy." She said. "I have a situation. Myself and the girls are planning a slumber party, and the Marigold Cupcakes are sold out in my fave store back in New York-"

"Darling." Hiram cut in. "You know you're not supposed to come into my office."

The girl groaned. "But daddy! It's not fair! Josie and Melody and Cheryl are expecting cupcakes! I must deliver!" She finally seemed to notice the three of them. 

"Oh! Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude on you talking to your pets."

Anger filled him. Pain. Confusion. All in a vicious cocktail. 

Jughead winced when the girl made her way over to the three of them, her heels thudding in the carpet. She came towards Archie and bent down in front of him. Jughead felt his heart splinter. The girl wore a curious smile. She lifted the boy's head with her index, frowning at his blank eyes. Veronica hummed. "I thought you said Archie Andrews was mine, father." The girl pressed a kiss to the boys cheek, before removing her index from underneath his chin. His head dropped obediently, and Jughead swallowed a cry.

This was too much. Veronica Lodge. She was using them. Playing with them. Back at school. She knew what was going on. She knew what he'd seen. His stomach revolted.

"He is, Princess." Hiram mused. "Archie has several clients tonight, and then he's all yours."

Several clients. 

All yours. 

Jughead felt like his brain was on fire. But he couldn't do anything. Couldn't fight back.

Veronica straightened up, pouting. "Promise?"

Hiram chuckled. "Would I ever disappoint my little girl?"

Veronica giggled. "Of course not!" She moved a step to the left, and Jughead felt the breath leave his lungs. The girl surveyed him, her lip curling. She was still wearing the glitter from his morning. Back when she had seemed mostly innocent, when in fact a wolf in disguise. Veronica blinked at him before she reached out, gently brushing strands of hair out of his eyes. "Jughead Jones," she murmured. Her icy breath tickled his cheeks. "He is quite beautiful, isn't he daddy?" Veronica cocked her head. "Not in a handsome way, like Archie. But those eyes." The girl hummed softly. "I would kill for those eyes."

It was hard not to flinch away, to maintain the blank look on his face. Especially when she grabbed his chin, forcing him to look directly at her. 

"You can have his eyes," Hiram said. "Just tell me and they're yours, sweetheart."

Veronica didn't smile. She pursed her lips. "Done." Her hold on him released, and Jughead let his head drop too. 

The girl wandered over to her father next, leaning over his desk and kissing him on the cheek. "Cupcakes, daddy. I want them before midnight."

"Of course, darling."

With a satisfied noise, the girl left, slamming the door behind her. 

When Veronica was gone, Hiram got back to business. "Now." He said. "Stand up. Go and serve my clients. And do not make a fool of me. Understand? I want you back here at 3am. There's a little job I have for you. Someone I know owes me money. I will give him to you as a reward for serving my clients." He chuckled. "You love bloodshed, don't you?"

Betty and Archie were on their feet in seconds. "Yes, Master. Of course, Master. "

"Elizabeth. Take your ponytail out. I should cut that damn thing off."

The girl nodded, pulling out the hair band. 

"Archie. Unbutton your collar. My client wants a fresh look. And for gods sake, tame those curls. You look like you've been scalped." 

"Sorry, Master." Archie unbuttoned his collar and ran his fingers though his hair, smoothing it.

Jughead followed, his mind racing. His brain was awash in fog, tangled and confused. He could barely get the words out. 

"Room thirteen, Jughead." Hiram said. "Your room has changed. You client is waiting in there for you."

Archie and Betty walked out obediently, and once they were on the hallway, and Jughead had slammed the door behind him, he grabbed Archie's arm. Betty was too far away. "Archie, listen to me-"

"Did I say meander?" Hiram's voice boomed. The door had opened without him realising, the man must not have caught his frenzied hiss. "Clients. Now."

Archie walked away obediently, and Jughead found himself stumbling towards room 13. There was a golden plaque on the front. His shaking hands found the metal doorknob. 

He twisted once. 

Then again. 

A click, and the door swung open. 

Hesitantly, he stepped inside. The room looked a thousand dollars; a velvet red carpet and cream walls. A bed was to his left with silk sheets and pillows. And laying back on his elbows, was a man who looked to be in his late thirties, early forties. He had a receding hairline and yellow crooked teeth when he shot Jughead a smile. 

"Finally." The man sat up. "I've been waitin' forever, boy. What took you so long?"

He couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. The man cocked his head.

"You're not as vocal as last time," He chuckled. "How bout we start easy? You might have been a good fuck last week, but you look zoned out tonight. I'll be havin' words with Hiram. I paid good cash for ya. Not that I don't like the other two." a smile slithered its way onto his lips, grey eyes glinting. "Red gives good blowies, and Blondie is a nice bounce around, but I don't enjoy them quite like I enjoy you."

Jughead opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. The visions had showed him flashes of his stolen memories, had hinted that he had been touched. 

But he didn't want to find out like this. 

"Well?" The man barked. "What the fuck are you waiting for? Get on your fucking knees."

And Jughead did. Maybe it was his legs giving way, or he couldn't stand it anymore. Too much. It was too much. He was giving up. Jughead slid onto his knees while the man chortled. "That's right. Are you going to make me feel good, boy?"

He could do nothing but nod. Scared of what would happen if he refused. The man shuffled to the edge of the bed. When Jughead was close enough his hand snagged out, grabbing the boy's scalp, raven curls bleeding through his fingers. He yanked the boy's head between his legs. Jughead whined, trying to pull his head back. But the man was forceful, grasping his hair tighter. "I don't know what's wrong with you this evening, but if you don't step up I'll make sure to tell Hiram how bad you've been at serving me."

A choked out laugh escaped the man's lips. "Me. A loyal customer."

Tears were trickling down Jughead's cheeks, but he didn't wipe them away. A nightmare, he told himself. This is a nightmare. He'll wake up at home. Safe. 

"Well, get on with it then! Do I have to unfasten my own damn belt buckle?"

Lifting his head, Jughead aimed to scream back, cry out and yell until his throat was burning. But instead, his gaze saw something silver ignite. A glimmer of glistening teeth. 

A knife. Jughead stared hard. There was a knife sticking from the bastard's front pocket. Jughead steeled himself. If he could get hold of it, then maybe...

Before he could hesitate or rethink his actions, Jughead held his breath. "Do you want me to make you feel good?" He rasped. Every word hurt, and yet felt natural on his lips.

The client nodded. "Fucking finally." He growled. "Do your fucking job. I don't pay good money to be fucked around with."

Nodding, Jughead forced a smile. His hands went to the man's belt, slowly unbuckling and removing it. The jeans loosened, and he grabbed the material and yanked them down. The man was distracted, readying himself for what he hoped was going to follow so many sessions before. But Jughead was quick. With the speed of a Serpent attacking its prey, he grabbed the knife. It felt right in his hand. And he automatically knew how to use it. 

"Lie down." He ordered the client, slowly getting to his feet. He had half a mind to ram the knife into the man's eye. Deface his face, slash it until he was unrecognisable. 

"Huh?" The man pulled a face. "Aren't you supposed to be-"

"Lie down." Jughead repeated. "I have a fun new game."

Grumbling, the man lay on his back. And Jughead didn't waste time. He climbed onto the bed, straddling the client quickly, before stabbing the point of the knife into his neck. It was jarring how easy his body adapted to such a notion. 

"New game." Jughead growled, leaning forward. "How old am I?"

The man stared up at him, fear igniting his eyes. "But... wait, why are you-"

"Answer the fucking question." Jughead spat. "How. Old. Am. I?"

The man whimpered when he stuck the blade in a little deeper. "I don't know! Twenty two?"

That time, Jughead laughed. "Wrong." He put more pressure on the knife. "How old are Red and Blondie, as you so wonderfully call them?"

"I don't fucking know! Look, I just come for a fun time!"

Harder. The anger, the relentless hatred and pain was bubbling over. "Tell me their age."

"Twenty two? You're hurting me!" 

"Also wrong." Jughead gritted out. "That's a pity." He teased the blade down the man's chest, slicing cleanly through his shirt. 

"You little shit," The man hissed. "Hiram won't be happy when I tell him your performance."

Jughead laughed. Maybe he was connecting with his splintered side after all. The part of him who killed with no remorse. Performance. He'd show the bastard a performance. 

He wasn't sure what happened after the man started struggling. But his mind knew what to do. He'd done it so many times before. He knew how to gut someone. How to cut their throat open. Jughead wasn't thinking when he slashed the man's throat. He wasn't thinking when a crimson tide pooled down the sheets and the man stopped gurgling, fighting for breath. He wasn't really thinking at all. What he was thinking about, however. Were the bruises covering him. Covering Betty. Probably Archie too. Jughead slid off the bed and wiped the knife on his shirt. A crimson smear stained the fabric. But he didn't care. 

He left the room in a daze. 

Out. He had to get out. 

Jughead darted down the hall, struggling to stay on his feet. He scanned each door, racking his brains for the ones Archie and Betty had been assigned. 

His fingers curled around the doorknob to number 16. Keeping the knife clenched in his fist, Jughead twisted the knob, and let the door slide open. 

He didn't need to see much. Nick St. Clair, a student from Riverdale's boarding school, Stonewall Prep. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head tipped back, eyes closed. Archie was knelt between his legs, his head of crimson curls bobbing up and down. His collar was undone, as were most of the buttons on his shirt. His jeans were unbuttoned, but were still tight around his waist. Jughead let out a shaky breath. Nick hadn't done anything yet. For a moment, he just stood and watched. The hand holding the knife was trembling. "Get away from him." The words slipped from his lips so effortlessly. To see a Bulldog, one of the most popular boys in school, reduced to... to this. 

Jughead stared at the redhead, who didn't lift his head.

Nick's eyelashes fluttered and he turned to blink at Jughead, his eyes slightly dilated. "Jones?" The boy chuckled. He curled his fingers in the redhead's hair, gripping it, forcing Archie to go faster. "Three's a party, sure. But I didn't want you tonight." He wrapped his thighs around Archie's head, pulling him closer. 

"I ordered Andrews, as you can see. And I paid good cash. So kindly fuck off."

And then he saw the knife. 

"Jesus!" Nick scrambled to sit up, shoving Archie away. The redhead stumbled onto his butt. Jughead grimaced at the boy's indecency. But he did take a shaky step towards him, wielding the knife. It stuck perfectly to his fingers. "I'm taking Archie."

Nick scowled. "Then you can pay me the 200 I paid Hiram for his little pet!"

200? That's all the boy was worth? 

Jughead ignored him. "Get up." He managed to get out, glaring at the redhead, who frowned at him with glassy eyes. There were fresh bruises colouring his right cheek. Archie didn't respond. Jughead waved the knife at Nick. And then it clicked. Betty and Archie only did what Hiram and his clients told them. "Tell him to follow me."

Nick scoffed, covering himself with a sheet. "You were doing a shitty job anyway." His lip curled, eyes reluctant. "Go and stand with Jones."

Archie nodded and got to his feet, before joining Jughead's side. Jughead glanced at Nick, and the boy broke out into a sickening smile. "You were so good to me last time, Jones. What changed? You and Ponytail are good together, but Andrews? He's a treat."

Another confusing cloud of mind fog took him over once more. The knife was in his hand one minute, and then it was buried in Nick's chest. The boy was dead before he could release his breath. Archie was frowning at Nick's body, brown eyes hard and derelict.

"Our master won't approve of that."

"You don't have a Master," He muttered, before hesitating. His fingers worked quickly, buttoning Archie's shirt. And after several mental arguments, his pants too. "Come on." Jughead grabbed the redhead's arm, yanking him out of the room. 

Betty. Betty. Betty. Where was she? He tried every door, with Archie trailing along behind him. Every room was either unlocked or empty. Except for the last one. Jughead slipped into the room, only to find it was dark. He pawed at the wall for a light, clicking it on. Jughead should have recognised the door. But his thoughts had been so entangled earlier, he could barely register his surroundings. 

Archie spoke in a toneless drawl. "Our Master's office. We can't be in here. It's forbidden."

Another laugh spluttered from his lips. "You need to snap out of it. This isn't Inspector fucking Gadget, Archie! That man is not a cartoon moustache twirling villain who you must obey, okay? He's a psychopath who's been using us for the last two years without us even realising. And once you wake up, I can assure you you'll want to rip his head off." 

Pulling Archie inside and shutting the door behind him, Jughead automatically went to Hiram's desk, pawing through paperwork. There had to be some record of Hiram's clients, and which rooms they were in. He rounded the desk, falling to his knees in front of three wooden draws. Jughead tried the first one, subconsciously looking for a weapon. He sifted through random documents and what looked like leases, getting progressively more frustrated. Then he tried the next draw down. This time it was piled with old books and dusty photographs. Fuck. Time was running out. Archie stood idly by, unmoving. 

"Jones, What you're doing is against our Master's orders. We exist to serve-"

Jughead slammed an ancient looking book down. "Stop fucking saying that." He gritted out, caught in a whirlwind of paper. "Stop it, Andrews. Please."

"Our Master will be here soon."

Choking out a sob, Jughead yanked open the last draw. "It'll make sense soon, Archie. I promise. But right now, we need to find Betty."

Betty. Betty. Betty. Her name was on his lips. He searched for it, his chest aching, stomach dancing. The girl was supposed to be nothing to him. Elizabeth Cooper was a fellow prisoner of Hiram Lodge. They were partners in a matter of circumstance. But his heart felt like it was going to burst. That wasn't normal. For him to feel so much for a blonde he'd said around three sentences to in 17 years. Jughead's shaking hands landed on a manilla folder. He pulled it out quickly, flipping through it. The folder wasn't that thick. But something caught his eye. Three names printed on the front. 

Jones, Jughead.  
Cooper, Betty.   
Andrews, Archie. 

Jughead's breath thinned. Stapled to the front of the folder were three individual documents. Jughead peered closer. Signatures of Consent. 

His gaze was stuck to a line of text on the document marked with his name in neat cursive handwriting. There was what looked to be an agreement printed in bold, but he ignored it.

Signed: Forsythe Pendleton Jones II. 

The folder slipped from his hands. 

He hadn't been kidnapped and enslaved, at least according to the documents. 

He had been sold. Sold by his own father. Who he'd cried to when the blackouts started. It had only been once, when it got too much. When he grew so fearful he stopped being stubborn, and went to the person he needed the most. FP Jones had laughed at him, saying he had a wicked imagination. "Boy, you could turn that idea into a best seller."

Jughead blinked. He couldn't break now. Betty still needed finding. 

Heart racing, Jughead grabbed the folder and peered at the other files. Sure enough, their parent/guardian signatures were scrawled across the bottom. Alice Cooper, Betty's mom, and Archie's uncle Frank. His parents died when he was thirteen. 

The overwhelming urge to drop the folder and run filled him. But Jughead couldn't stop himself flipping through the rest. The docs were labelled with coloured tabs:

CLIENTS (2018-2019)  
BEHAVIOUR   
TRAINING ASSESSMENTS  
MEDICAL RECORDS

Inside the medical tab were individual transcripts highlighted in bright yellow. Printed in bold were the words: IMPLANT INFO. 

"What are you doing in my office?"

At the voice, Jughead dropped the papers and spun around. Hiram was standing in the doorway, Betty at his side. The girl looked dishevelled; her collar undone, curls dancing in her eyes. The man nodded to the blonde. "Thank you for informing me, Elizabeth."

The girl nodded. "Of course."

Hiram cleared his throat. "Archie, tell me what's happening."

Archie hurried to the man's side, like a lapdog. He bowed. "Jughead killed my client, Master. He came into your office and invaded your privacy. I did tell him to stop."

"Oh, did he now?"

For a moment, he was frozen. And then Jughead began to laugh. Hysterical bubbles of laughter bubbled in his throat and he shakily stood up, waving the folder. 

The man hummed. "Oh, it appears you're awake."

Jughead swallowed. All the bravado was gone in an instant. "Why?" He choked on the word, stumbling backwards. 

"Why?" Hiram chuckled. His eyes darkened. "You were a plague on my town. Your little investigative trio trying to make me look bad. I had to do something about it." His lip quirked. "And of course, your parents each owe me a favour from a long time ago. Alice Cooper was happy to oblige, as I of course hold her to a deal dating back twenty years. Fred and Mary Andrews unfortunately were unable to get back to me, of course you know the circumstances." The man pulled a face. "Such a tragedy. However, Frank Andrews would do anything for a good sum of cash." The man hesitated. "And of course, your father."

"I don't want to know." He whimpered out. 

Hiram chortled. "As you wish, Forsythe."

Jughead couldn't help it. He pushed down the agony, the knowledge that his own father had given him to Hiram Lodge. "You turned us into mindless freaks."

"Of course not! You're a soldier, Jughead. Isn't it so much better to not think at all? That was the problem with you three. You were thinking too much. And not about school work. About my town. How I run it. The only option was to take your minds all together." Something glimmered in the man's eyes. "As well as any feelings you might have had."

Feelings. 

His gaze found Betty, and Jughead felt himself shatter.

Hiram inclined his head. "Elizabeth, please restrain Jughead. It appears he's broken."

Betty didn't waste time. She walked over and grabbed his arms, forcing them behind his back. Jughead bit back a cry. The girl was strong, easily pinning his arms. But something snapped inside of him, causing him to act without thinking. The moves were already inside his head, thriving in his limbs. How to take someone down. He slammed the back of his head into her mouth, and the girl released him. But she didn't make a sound. Jughead started forwards, but the girl was wrapping her arms around his neck. Squeezing. 

Squeezing. 

Squeezing. 

Black spots danced in his vision and he struggled, fighting for breath. He'd felt this before. But her arms hadn't suffocated him, they had cradled him. So warm. 

So sweet. 

Tears were free-falling down his cheeks. Hiram hadn't just taken his mind. His free will. He'd taken her. Everything he felt for Betty. Every memory torn from him. 

And there were only fragments left. Tiny shards he could just about reach. 

Hiram's lip curled. "Elizabeth, don't kill the boy." His eyes sparkled. "I do need him, after all."

Her grip loosened, allowing him to suck in precious gasps of oxygen. Jughead fell limp in her embrace, gasping for breath. The words were convoluted in his throat. "Who was she to me? Betty. You took her from me. Who was she?"

The man ignored him. His smile was spiteful. "Now, Jughead. I'm afraid you're broken, which is a pity. You've killed two of my clients. And you very nearly alienated Archie. It's quite a mess. I'm going to have to get you reconditioned."

Reconditioned? He struggled violently, but Betty held him tighter.

"I'll do it, daddy. As long as once you're tired with playing with him, I can have those ocean eyes. I've always wanted pretty eyes." 

Jughead's gaze went to the door where Veronica stood. But again, she wasn't smiling. There was something in her expression, a crease of discomfort. 

She held his eyes for far too long, before her crimson lips finally stretched into a bright smile. "I'll make him good as new. I promise."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please make sure to tell me you're reading, if you'd like me to post more! Leave kudos if you like, and tell me what you think! :D 
> 
> what's the deal with veronica? ;)
> 
> this fic is a distraction, and im so happy i can write this and sink into the world.


	4. Chapter 4

hello! okay, so a slight delay, im so sorry. i was supposed to be writing and played sims for like 7 hours welp jkjfkdjfkd

though while im here, if you're reading, even a ghost, please let me know you're here. I adore writing this fic, but i dont want to write it for like 2/3 people, i guess. If that doesn't sound rude I hope it doesn't fjdkfjkdjf 

I'll keep to the schedule (nothing better to do lmao) im a ball of anxiety and fear p much every second of the day, i need distractions <3 

**the next part has an insane twist i hope you'll enjoy!**

this fic has been a slow burn so far, BUT as a certain person starts to regain themselves, the bughead will explode :D

thank you so much for reading, and stay safe and healthy! In mind, body and soul <3 

**Author's Note:**

> AHHHH. I hope you guys enjoyed! Let me know if you liked, and leave a comment if you'd like more! :D


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